Mind Shelter
by Light8mare
Summary: The torture has already begun to destroy his mind. He tries his best to maintain himself through the horror, but John's grasp in slipping. It is then that he discovers his Mind Shelter.
1. Chapter 1

Throbbing.

Everything. It was all _pain._

He knew of people who broke when they were like this. He couldn't remember where or why he learned this, he had long ago discarded the information in favor of further compacting his mind.

The smaller and tighter together all of _JohnHamishWatson _was, the further and more protected he was from _Them. _

He had to hide as well as he could, or they would find him and drag him out of his mind and out into the open where they could break him into little pieces. Break him like they break his body.

Hurt. That's what outside was. That's what awareness and being in touch with his useless body was.

_SherlockHolmes _would say something about the mind being superior to it's carrier. He would tell _JohnHamishWatson _that his emotions associated with the torture orchestrated by the _Them _were meaningless and distracting. They were only hurting him more. So _JohnHamishWatson _made sure to put a block between himself and them.

They weren't as important as The Names. He was supposed to remember them, just in case he saw the people who owned The Names.

The two most important were _JohnHamishWatson _and _SherlockHolmes. _Then there was _Harriet(Harry)Watson. _Then _. _All the others weren't important enough to waste strength reviewing. He still held onto them anyways.

He had details on them. All too hard to review though, except _JohnHamishWatson _because that one was most important. He had to protect it, or everything would break and crumble.

Everything.

That would make him die.

_Hurting. _He was hurting again. Always. Hurting.

It meant Vulnerable. Which meant Dangerous. Which meant Death.

That was not good.

He knew _Them _wouldn't kill his body- not purposefully anyways. But the mind where _JohnHamishWatson _lived was a bit more than fair game.

They said it was funny. The _Them. _

They said it was funny to watch him squirm. They said it was funny to smear food over his bony Halloween-skeleton ribs and mock him when he tried unsuccessfully to lick it off. They said it was funny to tie him to a rope and play Pendulum with him over a fire.

_JohnHamishWatson _didn't think they were as funny as they thought they were.

They thought he was wrong.

To prove it, they made him lay in a coffin with mutilated human parts for days.

When they took him out he did readily agree they were very funny.

Letting them be funny scared him so badly though. When the _Them _came to get him he froze up in place every time. Like a rabbit.

The only time the _Them _weren't scary was when they decided he was cute. They said he made cute faces. They said he looked like a hedgehog. When they decided he was their pet hedgehog, they would then decide they were Thebestpetowners and hug him and pet his hair and feed him and tell him he was a good pet. He would comply and play Pretend with them as long as they wanted.

Because they could only be Thebestpetowners for a while before the game got boring.

And suddenly he wasn't their "good pet".

He was their prisoner. And prisoners were entitled to torture.

No matter how much like a cute hedgehog they were.

So they ran cheese graters and sandpaper all over his skin until he looked very sunburned, and they experimented with things that lashed like chains and belts and wires, and they experimented with things that dug in like fish hooks and knives and needles and teeth.

And they laughed when he screamed. And they laughed when he cried.

And their smiling faces began to hurt as bad as both experiments.

So _JohnHamishWatson _made it a rule not to look at smiles.

When they dressed him up like a princess and made him kiss their feet, their eyes sneered and told him he wasn't human.

So _JohnHamishWatson _made it a rule not to look at eyes.

He tries really hard to hide from them. He really did. But they just kept sneaking in through cracks in defenses caused by Pain and Emotion.

Weakness.

And they would grab at him and jerk at him and say through their spiteful laughs "_come out and play! We want to break you John{Hamish}Watson!" _And with every grab they chipped _JohnHamishWatson._

He knew it would destroy him if he couldn't find a place they couldn't get to.

.•∆•.

He was alone on the floor.

It was time for their Snacktime. That's what they told him with high pitched giggles and clapping hands.

Snacktime.

It gave him the vague sense that he might have once thought they were a little insane.

He wondered why he didn't now.

The topic is dismissed and unimportant and he moves onto a more immediate goal.

Getting them to play Thebestpetowners again. _JohnHamishWatson _knew he needed to be handled gently right now. There were glass walls in his brain around _JohnHamishWatson _and the _Them _were very close to it. Until he could refortify, he couldn't afford to have them break his walls.

It would hurt. Even more than experiments.

So that was why he was currently listing all he knew about hedgehogs.

It had been info he hadn't thrown away simply for safety's sake since they had been fond of the game around the time he had been pushing away memories and compacting.

Hedgehogs burrow. He idly scratches at the concrete below but recognizes it's a bad idea.

Hedgehogs rely more on smell and hearing due to poor eyesight. Not useful.

Hedgehogs can hibernate (but not all do). He considers it before dismissing it as impossible.

There was a fairytale called _Hans my Hedgehog _about a boy who was half hedgehog. It didn't appear to be helpful unless he began playing bagpipes for lost kings.

Hedgehogs curled into balls to protect themselves. Oh. He did do that sometimes, didn't he?

_JohnHamishWatson _shifts against the cold concrete, trying to ignore the stinging in his back. For some reason, as he ran over the short list again and again, the first one seemed to resound in his mind.

Maybe that meant he knew something, somewhere in his mind, that enabled him to use that in some way.

There was no place that could be used for digging in this room. Everything was too hard and would break off his sore nails (bleeding from clawing, reacting to pain). There was nothing he could take from either the _Them _or the cell to go through concrete.

He couldn't think. He _knew _this. What was it?

It reminded him of a riddle book. One of the riddles had been about an insane asylum (Why did he keep this memory? It wasn't even clear enough to remember) and a patient trying to escape. There were saws and hammers and all kinds of random objects not frequently found in mental hospitals.

There had been several different answers.

Not one had made any kind of logical sense.

He felt like the patient. How could he twist that word, burrow, so it became some sort of twisted clarity?

No burrowing into concrete. No using tools to burrow. No using _Them._

Burrow. Burrow. Burrow.

If he couldn't burrow physically... Could he burrow some other way?

In his head somewhere maybe?

Where?

_JohnHamishWatson_ stood at the center of himself and looked around.

There were a lot of options. But... Perhaps the best would be...

Straight down?

.•∆•.

It was like walking straight into a pool.

A sudden, straight drop.

And he was gone.

He was in a very, _very _deep place in his head.

He wondered if _SherlockHolmes _ever found this place in his mind. He wondered if it was part of the Mindpalace.

He wondered if it was safe.

It felt safe.

He seemed to be completely disconnected from the outside here. The only pain he could feel was mental strain. It was a nice change.

Maybe he could stay here. Move in and unpack, burrowed deep in him mind.

Protected.

A safe burrow. The thought itched and reminded him of something similar.

Wearing a stiff uniform. Being ushered frantically with others into a small building of stone and down.

A bomb shelter.

A shelter in his mind. Like the Mindpalace, only not.

A Mind Shelter.

* * *

**There really is a Brother's Grimm story called Hans My Hedgehog. Like a lot of Grimm stories, it doesn't seem to make sense in the way real life tries to. **

**I looked up hedgehog facts for the sake of accuracy, but only put down a few because it would have been weird if he just so happened to be an expert on them.**

**Internet memes aren't so funny when sadistic authors reference them.**


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson looked dead.

The tale-tell rise and fall from his chest and violent shivering dispelled the assumption, but not the possibility.

His army tan had paled into a color rivaling corpse skin. Sweat and grime clung to his malnourished frame and every breath was a faint wheeze-in pant-out not capable of doing anything more than preventing immediate suffocation. A nasty hacking cough further challenged his ability to breath.

A quick pinch on the skin of his hand revealed probable severe dehydration from the way it hesitated to fall back in place.

Most of his wounds were heavily infected and his face flushed in fever.

The left leg is turned at an impossible angle, revealing a break, and a couple of John's ribs had followed suit. Wrists irritated and raw from bonds, yet the severity and position said he had likely been suspended from them.

Signs of all sorts of tools used, fish hooks, whips, sandpaper, etc.

Rat bites, spider bites, snake bites (likely used to inflict fear as vermin tend to cause spastic, horrified reactions from people). Bruises, broken nose, smell of death and piece of rotting flesh stuck to his shoulder suggest he was in close quarters with a corpse at one point, nailsbroken and bloody.

His state of starvation and injury created a vulnerable illusion, making Jock seem almost childishly small now.

"Sherlock, step back." Lestrade pushes him backwards gently with an arm. He hits a wall and watches paramedics run over to John.

He hadn't noticed that they had gotten here. How weird.

Emotions, he reasoned, must be subtracting from his usual awareness. Which was weird, as he'd seen John in a lot of bad situations.

Strapped to a bomb. Strapped down in front of a Chinese death trap. On his knees with a gun at his head.

Sherlock usually maintained focus. Perhaps he should have considered sleeping yesterday? It had been two, (three, four days?)since he'd passed out on the couch. Though he _had_ dozed off for an hour yesterday.

Perhaps John's obsession with making him eat and rest wasn't all that pointless. He'd have to tell him that. Maybe. If John got better soon he'd consider it.

He watches them wheel said man into the ambulance on a stretcher with medical personnel still fluttering around him.

Oh. This is one of the first times he's seen John _really_ hurt. And seriously to boot.

It occurs to Sherlock that John's life may be in danger. And that Sherlock can do utterly nothing to help fix this.

It's a very odd feeling. Very wrong and uncomfortable. He hates situations out of his control, they made him useless and anxious.

How terribly human to feel.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade had grabbed his shoulder and was shaking him lightly. "You okay?"

"Yes... Yes, I'm fine," he replies, not even looking at Gerald or whatever his name was.

"You sure? You seem a bit... Out of it," he comments and Sherlock shakes his hand off.

"Quite fine... Yes..." He needed to get to John. Make sure he was... Properly taken care of. Only problem was, where were they taking him? Maybe Garrywhatsit could tell him. He was with police, police knew things... Sometimes.

He turns to Gaven. "Where is that ambulance going?"

"Sorry?" Grayson seems caught off by his suddenly attention and question. How typical.

"John. In the ambulance. Where are they taking him?" He explains impatiently.

"Um, I suppose just the nearest hospital... Cromwell, I believe." Garfield answers slowly.

Info gathered. No longer useful.

He wisks away from Griffin and heads outside of the building.

"Hey! Wait!" Gimli calls. Insistent. Boring. Slow. Obviously needing an explanation, but Sherlock didn't care to waste time with one.

It's much darker out than he expected it would be. Unimportant, as cabs would still be out even at this hour. It doesn't take too long to flag one down and he's quickly on his way towards the hospital.

Hmm. An ordinary public hospital. How would he know if John was receiving the care necessary for a full recovery? Things went wrong at hospitals as well. What if one of those idiots made a mistake and killed John?

As improbable as it was, Sherlock wanted to make sure it wouldn't happen. He whips out his phone and, albeit reluctantly, dials Mycroft.

"Myc-"

"Yes brother dear, I already know the situation."

Sherlock resists making a comeback about his stalker tendencies and instead chooses to focus on the problem at hand. "John's life could be in danger."

"It isn't, I assure you."

"How can you know?" It annoyed him that Mycroft knew something about John's situation he didn't.

"I have connections little brother, as you already know so well. It isn't exactly spinal surgery to slip in one of my own as a nurse."

"So you'll ensure he's well cared for?"

"Of course."

Well alright. He could live with that.

He hangs up and turns to stare out the window.

John had looked dead.

He'd seen dozens of corpses, so why did a mistaken one bother him?

_Because none of the others had been John._

_.•∆•._

Pneumonia was one of the things he had neglected to deduct from John's condition. In hindsight, it had been fairly obvious. Perhaps he really did need sleep.

The infections inside and out over his already frail body had made him disastrously ill. He hadn't been able to keep anything down since they brought him in two days ago, which was very not good as he was already half starved to death and, as previously noted, dehydrated.

As a result John currently had a small collection of IVs and such poked into him.

The doctors had debated on sticking a tube down his throat to help with breathing, but had agreed that if he did fine the first night on only the oxygen mask they wouldn't do it. John had passed ,thankfully, with only one or two really bad choking fits.

Neither time had he been conscious. He, in fact, had not breached wakefulness even once during his stay. It worried Sherlock. Staying unconscious for two full days was usually bad, right?

Despite these things, it didn't appear that John was going to die.

Even his concussion would not cause a sudden and very cruel death in the night. His fever was no longer climbing to ridiculous heights, instead balancing at about 40°C. No longer a medical emergency as it had been when he was brought in at 42°C

So overall, John appeared to be recovering fairly alright.

Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly all came by on more than one occasion, keeping Sherlock company and giving reassurances. Sherlock frankly didn't need their support, but kept quiet as the hospital was an incredibly _boring_ place and they kept him from bothering the other patients or trying to steal equipment (Molly even made him dump out his pocket full of those little ear examiners. He had been so close too).

Regardless of how bored he was though, Sherlock was determined not to leave John alone.

After all, who knows what these buffoons will do to him without his supervision? Plus, John still had nightmares on bad nights about the war. Waking in a hospital after one might trigger a panic attack. Then there was also that nurse that mentioned patients visited by loved ones tended to recover faster. John was important, therefore a speedy recovery was not unwanted.

However, after several weeks of steady physical recovery John had not yet woken up.

Disturbing and unusual as by now he could very nearly be taken out of the hospital and taken care of at home. There was no reason for him to remain comatose, unless there was an underlying problem.

This theory was dispelled, however, when his pupils were checked for reactivity. They both dilated and shrunk as they were supposed to. Pain stimulus caused him to reflexively flinch as well. He couldn't possibly be classified to be in a true coma, and yet Dr. John Watson did not wake up.

"Perhaps he's hiding."

Sherlock turns to frown at the nurse. "What?"

"He's a victim of abuse, right?" She explained. "He might just be hiding in his mind, trying to protect himself from the world. I've heard that it can happen."

"So how do I bring him out?" Sherlock asks.

She smiles. "Just be there. Show him that it's safe to come out."

He scowls and turns back to John. The whole idea sounded very sentimental and romanticized, but then again, that's how John worked right? Besides, there wasn't exactly much of another choice, now was there?


	3. Chapter 3

For a while, he felt like he was drifting.

There was only a vague awareness when he was hurt or moved, and then the event faded from his mind.

_JohnHamishWatson _was content in his Mind Shelter. He was content to drift and feel nothing.

He though maybe he wouldn't ever come out again because out there was Hurt and Fear. Even glimpsing the memories of outside felt like he was being very ruthlessly attacked, and so he tried not to look at Them.

But its seemed that _JohnHamishWatson _was a very curious, adventurous person by nature, so no matter how many times he tried to just block out everything and stay frozen forever, existing in semi-dream's peaceful, excepting state, he found memories trying to reopen themselves.

He didn't understand why they did that.

He didn't want to come out. He didn't want to face all that stuff again.

And yet they kept waking up.

It was scary. Scary to not understand and Scary not having control. He never had control, but right now he really _really _needed it.

So, grasping tightly to his fear, _JohnHamishWatson _retreats further, not realizing that he had ever even strayed out of the deepest part of his Mind Shelter. Not noticing that the unpleasant awarenesses were suddenly very rare.

_JohnHamishWatson _did not realize how hard he was trying to reach out to the person outside of his mind, the one he subconsciously recognized.

He was still too far gone.

* * *

**Short chapie existing mainly to lighten up writer's block. It just has the added bonus of showing us Johnny's point of view on being pulled out. Still a long while to go before he can pull himself out.**

**R&R! It prevents my funny little brain from assuming you don't love me... Or something cray like that. ;)**


End file.
